


Safe Again, With You

by violetpeche



Category: NCT (Band)
Genre: Alternate Universe - Post-Apocalypse, Angst, Angst with a Happy Ending, Apocalypse, Inspired by Music, M/M, Post-Apocalypse, Suicidal Thoughts
Language: English
Status: Completed
Published: 2020-02-29
Updated: 2020-02-29
Packaged: 2021-02-27 20:59:56
Rating: Teen And Up Audiences
Warnings: Creator Chose Not To Use Archive Warnings
Chapters: 1
Words: 1,749
Publisher: archiveofourown.org
Story URL: https://archiveofourown.org/works/22952173
Author URL: https://archiveofourown.org/users/violetpeche/pseuds/violetpeche
Summary: At the End of the World, Mark figured he would have gone along with it.
Relationships: Mark Lee/Suh Youngho | Johnny
Comments: 31
Kudos: 136





	Safe Again, With You

**Author's Note:**

  * For [cobalamincosel](https://archiveofourown.org/users/cobalamincosel/gifts).



> Well, well, well. Happy Mon Day!
> 
> I wrote this on a whim after having been bitten by the JohnMark bug by miss Mon. And today also happens to be: her birthday AND a leap day! I wrote this out of our inspiring conversations, and her deep love for Johnny and Mark. Why not bring the best of all worlds?
> 
> This one is for you, mama. Enjoy.
> 
> This short little drabble was written VERY QUICKLY (for my standard) in under a couple hours as I had Björk's ["Hyperballad"](https://open.spotify.com/track/4z1fNs2B7KndCsvyPgrhq5?si=V__Kyi3dQtaOERZj1W3wPg) on loop. Please pardon any glaring spelling errors.
> 
> Some TW/CW info: **the subject matter gets really grim and includes allusions to suicidal ideation. Please read the tags before proceeding.**

At the End of the World, Mark figured he would have gone along with it.

He never thought he’d be sat on the edge of a cliff, with his legs dangling several hundred meters above the jagged rocks below, watching the sun fall into the horizon line with nothing but the sound of the the waves crashing into the shore. 

He’d never thought he’d miss the sound of birds, the sweet robins that would sing outside his window every morning before his alarm went off, and would greet him home at twilight. He missed falling into his bed, face first, and waking us to the smell of dinner being plated down stairs. He missed the mundanity of going to school on his bike every day, and the feigned recklessness of coasting down the hill from his house without a helmet. In retrospect, those moments were the least of his worries.

Mark had lost track of time—it had been three, maybe four years, since the End of Time. He stopped counting after the first month, hopeless in his isolation. He stopped caring as he wandered desolate wastelands, poking through empty apartment buildings, warehouses of goods likely spoiled with radiation.

But now, Earth started to appear to be healing herself, building a new equilibrium with whatever was left to survive. Lichen and moss clung to the crevices of the schist beneath his palms, and more recently he’d come across a tree sprouting a few pieces of fruit, weighing down a weakened limb. He’d take his chances and eat them, as surviving each day to the next was always a gamble. 

The months leading up to the End of the World were a fog in Mark’s brain; he couldn’t decide if he forgot most of it because he wanted to, or if his brain wanted to spare him the details. What his body tells him was: everything was bright, it was hot, it was cold, _so cold_ , and it was loud, and it was impossible. He was scared, he was exhausted, and he was resentful. 

But the mind is resilient and stubborn. For a time, when he was completely alone, he wished his ankle would give climbing flights of stairs searching for provisions. It was exhausting trying to survive, to fight the terrifying reality of either truly being the last person on Earth, versus finding out you are not alone, and _something_ is out there to get you first. He’d decided he'd rather die at the hands of a happy accident, just like the rest of humanity.

The afternoon sun gleamed onto the blanket of ocean ahead. It had been several weeks since Mark stopped piling on sweaters and jackets, and well over a month since the last snow. The days were getting drier, and the ground was growing greener. He swung his legs from side to side, and inched his way forward as much as he could to feel his legs pull, heavy from the weight of gravity. He curled his hands over the edge of the cliff as a salty gust of wind whipped through his hair.

He looked down at the rocks below, like hungry jowls exposed from the tide pulled away from the shore. The lace of his left shoe had loosened; he’d imagined watching it slipping from his left foot, and bouncing onto the pile of rocks below. He’d spent months scraping through rubble looking for new shoes in the nearby city. His last pair had become a hazard with shredded laces and holes worn into the soles.

Then he imagined what it would be like if the wind took him after it, how the wind would feel carrying him to the bottom. 

_Would it feel cold? Would it feel like floating? Would time finally come to a halt? What would be the last thing he would think about? Would he remember it all? Would he end up head first when he kissed the shoreline? What would it sound like when his body slammed against the rocks?_

“Hey,” a voice called behind Mark and lifted him out of his twisted reverie. He felt his heart spike as his hands gripped tighter around the curve of the earth.

Mark shifted his weight back closer to the edge again and turned to look over his shoulder with a smile. “Hey, you,” he said with a smile. 

Johnny stood behind him holding a small bowl, dwarfed by his hands. His hair was pulled away from his face, likely with the elastic bands they found in a drawer in the cottage. There was a smile in his eyes, under the dark circles and dirt smudged across the front of his shirt. He’d always looked kind. From the moment they found each other, Mark had never been more relieved to make human contact again in his life.

“Want some soup?” Johnny lifted up the bowl in his hands, an offering of sustenance and peace on the edge of Mark’s dominion.

“Soup? Where’d you find that?”

“It’s a secret,” Johnny winked. Mark watched his eyes follow his hands at the edge of the cliff. His throat bobbed, swallowing hard as he hiked his thumb over his shoulder. “Why don’t you get up and join me?”

Mark nodded and rolled onto his side to hop up beside Johnny. 

They’d taken solace in a small cottage that miraculously remained intact on the top of the mountain. It had quaint furnishings and a wood burning stove, and enough room to stow a small mountain of canned food and buckets of rainwater. Mark found an acoustic guitar with a broken G-string in the cupboard, but made do with it anyway to strum chords by the fire every night. Johnny set up a camping shower on the side of the cottage with supplies forged from their visits to the decimated city center; Mark made sure to snap up every tube of toothpaste he crossed paths with. 

A gust of wind picked up again and pushed Mark forward into Johnny’s shoulder. A fresh spike of anxiety bloomed up his spine as he felt himself briefly lose his footing; right now was not the time for his brain to fall backward into the abyss.

As soon as he righted himself, he caught a whiff of the soup; the sweet, tangy smell of ripened tomatoes with basil and garlic wafted under his nose. He felt his stomach grumble.

“God, that smells amazing.”

Johnny held the bowl up to the edge of his lips. “Blow, it’s hot.”

It tasted better than it smelled—and Mark couldn’t tell if it was because he had missed the sharp, acidic flavors of roma tomatoes, or the sweet, grounding taste of crushed basil leaves. Bits of onion rounded out the flavors with a pinch of salt, and the richness on his tongue welled up memories he thought had long been purged from his brain. It reminded him of his mother’s spaghetti sauce, and shrouded him with a sense of warmth of comfort he had started to grow used to since having Johnny around.

It tasted lucky, like a saving grace, and Mark curbed his hunger to pull away from the lip of the bowl to swallow. He smacked his lips to savor the bits of flavor that had lodged into the corners of his mouth. “This is incredible—how’d you—”

Johnny pulled the bowl back to his chest. “Been holding onto these ones for a special day.”

Mark tilted his head to the side in wonder. “What’s so special about today?”

Johnny paused to look into the bowl and shook his head with a grin. “It’s so dumb.”

“No, no—tell me.”

Johnny bit his lip, a habit that drove Mark crazy—sometimes he’d remind him it’d only make his lips more chapped.

“It’s a Leap Day,” Johnny sighed. “Not like it matters. Not like any of that matters anymore.”

Mark felt his heart sink in his chest; Johnny was right. Quite literally, there was no point to anything in life anymore. There wasn’t a point to much of anything anymore. They had no jobs to go to, and had very few ways to keep themselves entertained. But since madness ravaged the World as They Knew It, life did feel a lot easier for Mark with Johnny around.

Having Johnny around made life start to feel worthwhile again. Mark felt himself turn back into making a home in his own skin, rather than try to break free from it. He had someone to talk to again, someone to sing with, someone to keep him from getting lost entirely and trapped in his own head. Each morning, waking up next to Johnny in their shared bed in the cottage provided more ease over their nightmarish reality. 

Over time, Mark felt a new sense of calmness start to wash over him as his eyes traced the line of Johnny’s profile, the shadow of his cupid’s bow and stubble on his cheeks under the morning sun that filtered in through the window. He grew to admire the way Johnny would wrap his arms around him, no questions asked, when things took a turn for the worst. Johnny’s selfless warmth helped build a bridge over the chasm in Mark’s chest.

And over time, Mark started to notice ways in which Johnny needed him just as much—in the way he poured great effort into their mealtimes, or the way Johnny found a new set of strings for the guitar on a trip in the city for Mark’s Christmas gift. Often times, when they went to restock provisions in the city, Johnny would guide Mark through doorways with a hand to the small of his back, or ask Mark to take his hand. Most nights, he’d ask Mark to sing him to sleep, and Mark had to sing with his lips pressed against his ear when the storms would roll through, roaring and relentless against the boarded windows.

Having each other’s company, at the End of the World, made them feel safe again.

“We can make it matter,” Mark said. “If you want us to.”

“Yeah,” Johnny nodded. “That’d be nice.”

Mark poked his finger against Johnny's shoulder and brushed the strands of hair that fell over his face. He’d need a haircut soon. 

“Let’s go celebrate Leap Day, then,” Mark said with a smile.

Mark hooked his arm around the crook of Johnny’s elbow and walked them back to the cottage, careful to mind each step of the way.

**Author's Note:**

> Many thanks to Shauna for her help and guidance!
> 
> Kudos and comments are greatly appreciated! Thanks for reading.
> 
> [twitter](https://twitter.com/johntographique) | [curiouscat](https://curiouscat.me/violetpeche)


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